The Weight of Goodbye

leaving the town I love

Goodbyes are a terribly heavy thing and I’ve been wearing the weight of them for weeks now.

I knew it was time to move out of Oxford around December. I’ve loved this town and been loved more by it than I would have ever dared dream when I moved here 5 years ago. Within its bounds, I have grown into a woman I had only ever wished of being. It’s hard to even remember what life I lived before knowing this town.

I drive thoughtlessly to the grocery store and to church and to the square. I know the bartenders at City Grocery and the menu of St. Leo. I walk in places and know people. I don’t lock my car or my house. It’s a very simple life.

The shy green of spring has deepened into the sure green of summer. We all go about our lives underneath Oxford’s canopy. The air is thick and sweet and southern. Birds are singing and the cicadas are not far behind. All the college students have left and a stillness has returned.

But it’s time for me to go.

All the charm and unhurriedness can’t make up for the fact that there’s only so much this town can give.

The life I am growing into is bigger than what I’m offered here. I started to feel myself push up against its walls, breaking the plaster and spilling out of the windows.

I’m 22 and in a month I’ll be 23. It’s time for something new.

I had always loved New York. I remember going in fourth grade over spring break and walking steps ahead of my family to pretend like a local. I held up my disposable camera to the big buildings and shops and crosswalks. I felt so small, yet still somehow a part of whatever New York was.

It felt the same the times I visited this year. There’s something about it I can’t quite explain. It’s terrifying and bigger than I’ll ever be but I can’t help but think there’s a place for me there.

So I decided it would be a good idea to try it on for size. My one-way flight takes off in the early afternoon of mid June.

The fear of my last days here has been looming for weeks now.

I don’t think anything could have prepared me for what leaving would really feel like. No amount of bracing or processing or hoping could weaken the power of loss.

All of the hurt and pain and sadness has led me to an unexpected pool of thankfulness.

It’s strange to think of all that has happened this past year, despite the struggle it was. What friendship and lessons and love has blossomed in my life.

With every goodbye I’m reminded of what I have now that I didn’t have before coming here. I’ve been shown in vivid detail what I’ve been given and who I’ve become and it’s humbling to think so little of it had to do with me.

My house is empty.

My roommates have moved out and for the most part, besides my bed, I’m moved out too. I’m the last one left and have been sitting with this empty house for four days now. I thought it would feel lonelier than it has. It’s been strangely nice to see the skeleton of my home and slowly feel myself let go of what it once was. As its life has faded with every picture frame removed and couch moved out, I’ve come to terms with the fact that it’s time for me to go.

Only a part of me remains here. Soon, I will be gone and everything will change and life will go on as usual.

I’ve found myself laughing at how anticlimactic leaving has been. I’ve had conversation after conversation about all my plans post-oxford. About the publishing course I’m taking and the neighborhood I’ll be living in. About the timeline and the logistics and the excitement of it all.

You would think once the end actually happened there would be a ceremony to acknowledge the depth of the moment. But yesterday, I walked out of the office on a Thursday afternoon and drove home the same way I always do, the only difference was that I won’t do it again. Nothing about the day itself shifted for me. Everyone will still show up on Monday with their to-do lists and meetings and emails to answer, but not me.

Tomorrow I will pack my car and drive through town for a final time. But the lights will still change from green to yellow to red, the stores will still open at 8 and close at 6, the restaurants will still serve their food and people will go about life as usual.

It hurts to know that. To know that the town will continue on. A part of me wishes it wouldn’t. But I’m glad to know it will always be there, whenever I’m ready to come home.

It’s scary leaving such a familiar chapter behind and forging into the next. I can only hold onto all that Oxford gave me and hope New York has something to give me too.

I’m sure the pit in my stomach will disappear and the tears will stop lining my face eventually. But I’m glad for the sadness right now and to feel so close to my loss. For the proof that I loved this town and all that it taught me. Each tearful goodbye and hug and drive away is evidence that one person can make a difference. That for some reason, God chose me to be that person for just a little while.

I know there’s good ahead. And I will probably write something along the same lines when I move from New York to the next place, but for now, I am going to feel the weight of this goodbye in all its sorrow and heaviness, knowing I only feel the weight because of the love I have given.

So long for now